Problematic
by MrsNoggin
Summary: 'Sherlock Holmes is fine with problems. More than fine. Problems are his job. More than his job. Problems are his life.' - Sherlock really wants to ask John something. Only, he's not sure what... Written for Good Old James, who requests the most brilliant, if slightly odd, things! RATED M for Johnlock slash and sweariness. Consider yourself warned!
1. Chapter 1

_Written for Good Old James, a man who had a dream..._

_I make no apologies. But I will warn you again - this isn't my usual style/ content. There is a bit of sexytimes. Who am I kidding, there is quite a lot of sexytimes. I wouldn't want you to get any surprises, nasty or not. If it ain't your thing, don't read it. _

**DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely nothing. I make absolutely nothing from writing this nonsense. **

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It is getting to be a problem.

Sherlock Holmes is fine with problems. More than fine. Problems are his job. More than his job. Problems are his life.

His current seemingly unsolvable problem is John. John himself is not the problem. In fact, he is far from it. He is the answer to many: someone to live with, someone to work with, someone to make him tea and ensure he eats, someone to correct his more unsociable tendencies, someone to care (more or less).

The problem is more of Sherlock's own reactions to John's presence. His distraction. His obsession.

He can smell John on entering a room. Before he can detect perfume, explosives, bleach, concealed anticipatory assailants. In the split second his brain takes to process the information supplied by his olfactory receptors, it always investigates the possibility of the presence of John. And when he is there in front of him, sometimes Sherlock has to remind himself it is not socially acceptable to smell someone; to lean in, running the tip of your nose through the thick hair at the base of their skull to disturb and coax the scent up into your nostrils. The musky pine of cologne, the bitter tang of digested and absorbed tannins seeping through, all curled and swirled with sweet sweat and coconut shampoo.

He can hear John. At crime scenes asking questions, breathing over Sherlock's shoulder to observe, talking while he is trying to think. In the flat, humming while he dresses, clinking while he makes tea, the painfully slow clicking of his fingers on the laptop keyboard. In the darkness of night, his softest voice haunting the black of Sherlock's early dreams. The smooth timbre of air vibrating through his vocal chords, the rhythmic echo of his footsteps (always determined, still slightly favouring one side).

He can see the signs of John everywhere. His lifeless jumper strewn carelessly across the back of his chair, the supposedly humorous mug beside the sink, John's broad brogues tumbled with his slender Italian leather ankle boots under the coat stand. John is something he can stare at for hours, just watching the delicate shift of his skin as he breathes.

And therein lies the predicament. Time that should be spent mentally investigating a quandary is spent elsewhere. Instead of retreating to his mind palace to search out and process details of a case, calculate possibilities; Sherlock finds himself in the Room of John, searching out memories of John's nostrils flaring as he inhales the steam from his freshly brewed morning tea, or calculating the precise angle of the cocking of his head at a certain enquiry.

And it is bloody ridiculous.

John, bless him, for the most part seems oblivious. In the beginning of their partnership he occasionally he gave Sherlock a curious look when he moved a bit too close, or stared a little too long, protested at an abrupt graze of skin or an inquisitive sniff of his woollen sleeve. But it soon faded. He became accustomed to the breaching of his personal space and the use of his belongings and the long studying gazes.

There _is_ one solution – he could ask John to leave.

No, that's inconceivable. Surely it would even worse with him gone, mourning the loss, unable to fulfil his desire to immediately smell or hear or touch... There is an odd ache in his chest at the barest thought of it.

There are two solutions – John leaves (inconceivable) _or_ he learns to get past it.

No, that's impossible; it's been over a year already. 396 days to be precise. 9,496 hours. 569,785 minutes. He could work out the seconds, but that would be obsessive. Wouldn't it? So, no, learning would appear impossible.

There are three solutions – John leaves (still inconceivable); he learns to get past it (still impossible); or he tells him.

But no, that would be humiliating. How on Earth could that be phrased? Not even to be socially acceptable, he doesn't bother worrying about that for John, but he would struggle even to find a way to put it to him. And what would he even be trying to say? He would likely turn into a stuttering moron, struggling for words, muddling his syllables into a constant stream of burbling, and that would be unthinkable. So no, too humiliating.

There are four– now this is turning into the Spanish Inquisition...

Why does he even _have_ this reference? Surely that should have been deleted long ago; there is no use in– Oh... another thing from the Room of John. A memory, only slightly faded by tiredness (fifty hours and eighteen minutes of solid consciousness) and the liberal application of a good red wine (Jean-Luc Colombo Cornas Terres Brulees, vintage 2008, aired for thirty-five minutes and served at approximately 18⁰). Monty Python, or one of them. The most ridiculous, nonsensical screenplay ever created, but, even by Sherlock's standards, witty and amusing in parts. A shared evening. Sherlock's long limbs stretched across the sofa, bare feet tucked under a throw cushion; John on the floor, leaning back against the front of the couch. At several points in the screenplay Sherlock had become absolutely lost. He was unsure whether it was a byproduct of the chaotic writing, or his deplorable habit of losing attention, distracted by John's unguarded laughter and the sensation of his hair brushing against the bare skin of Sherlock's forearm as he tipped his head back in mirth. Possibly both.

"Staring." In the present, the gently chiding tone cuts into his somewhat one-track ponderings.

Oh, yes, so he is. John is looking at him, lowering his newspaper. The action is unnecessary as he is side on across the room anyway and perfectly in view, even with the tabloid up in front of his face.

"What's the matter now?"

This is it; he has to say something. Never has a more perfect opportunity presented itself. He has his full attention, and it was not even partially split by annoyance or exhaustion.

"John..." _John, I am obsessed with you... _No.

"Yes?" His tone is serious. He has understood the depth of Sherlock's voice.

"John, I... I..." _I can't stop watching you, smelling you, wanting you... _No.

"You?"

"It's..." _It's impossible to imagine life without you..._

"Just say it, Sherlock," John folds his newspaper and puts it carefully on the table beside him. He is looking intently at his flatmate now, obviously intending to hear him out, anticipating some soul-deep confession. "I'm here to listen to anything you need to say."

"I need to..." _Consume you. I need to absorb every atom of your being and blend it with my own. I am incomplete without you. I crave you with every pore and cell of my body and mind._ No. It is not something he can put into words. He is not even sure John would understand if he could.

"Sherlock?" There is a sweet uplifting lilt at the end of John's tone. Hope, perhaps?

He watches the expressions play across the face in front of him, analysing and naming them as he goes. Confusion, curiosity, hope, denial, self-criticism, frustration. He needs to say something and he needs to say it now, before John loses the moment and slips back into casual indifference.

"John. Can I..." _Can I..._Actually he hadn't even had anything planned to say then.

"Yes." Not an enquiry, or an encouragement; just an answer to the question he knows is coming.

John's cheeks round in a smile. Almost triumphant. He dips forwards in his chair, leaning towards him. Sherlock observes, fascinated as the minute dips in his skin, old scars, marked pores, uneven flesh, stretch and curve with his emotion. He can almost taste the texture on his tongue. He wants to.

"Can I lick your face?" Shit. That wasn't what he'd meant to say.

"What the–" John blows out, grabbing his paper, flapping it open and disappearing behind it. "I'm not even... I don't... Pfft."

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_As I always say, I do love a review..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2. Usual disclaimers apply. You know, nothing is mine, nobody, zilch, nada. _

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John rarely knows what is going on in Sherlock's head. More things than he could likely comprehend, he imagines. But still, he had flattered himself that he could at least guess what was going to come out then. He hadn't been sure how he was going to react; he tries in general to not think about it, but he knew it was coming. Until Sherlock had said... what he had said. What _had_ he said?

"Did you just say what I think you did?"

Sherlock is staring at the fireplace now, looking thoughtful. His voice stays calm, monotonous almost. "It depends on what you think I said. Contrary to popular belief, I do not read minds. However it is fairly likely that, yes, I did."

He is not foolish enough to think this means his friend does not care. Far from it; this is Sherlock shielding himself. By projecting indifference he is freed from the obligation to show any true reaction to John's response, whatever it may be. The only time he ever sounds that uncaring about something is when he actually cares.

"Right. Ok. Well no, not ok, but... Nevermind. Let's just forget this conversation ever happened."

"Can you?"

"Probably not."

No. John doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget Sherlock casually requesting to lick his face... And the strange thrill of excitement the request created. It's just too weird. On both their parts.

He takes a deep breath, expanding his lungs as though he can fill them with courage as well as oxygen. "Why?"

There is no hesitation. Sherlock has no intention of procrastinating with pointless repetition or supposed curiosity as to what John is referring to. "I want to taste you."

"To what purpose?" What the–? Why would he–?

"I see you all the time. And hear you. And smell you. Occasionally I touch you. I've never tasted you."

"Data?" Ah, that makes more sense than... what he'd been thinking. Whatever that is.

"No. Just desire."

"Right."

No it isn't. It is far from right. You don't just announce to someone, randomly on a quiet drizzly evening, that you _desire_ to lick their face. Not after a year of a swiftly developing yet still frustratingly platonic, rather too close for comfort (for both involved parties _and_ surrounding spectators), highly questionable and unhealthy relationship. It just isn't done.

"So can I?" He still isn't looking at him. His voice is still painfully flat. For all appearances he could simply be talking, wondering aloud to himself.

"Erm... Ok." And he realises he means it. Maybe it is ok. To him, anyway.

Sherlock looks then, all wide eyes and parted lips. John likes to know he can still surprise him. "Really?" He breathes.

As an answer, John stands, ignoring the creak in his knee, and makes his way around the low table to the sofa. Sherlock shifts to the side to leave him space to sit next to him and still leave space between them. Not much, just a foot or so.

It is awkward. But then, how could it be any other way? This is the oddest way he has ever offered himself to anybody, ever. He doesn't know exactly what to expect here. John perches gingerly on the edge of the cushion. He has no idea what Sherlock is expecting from him either. Does he want him to just sit there while he licks his face, or does he want him to participate somehow? Will there be _kissing?_ He could cope with kissing. He'd quite like it actually...

"How do you want me?"

"Exactly as you are." The way he says it, his deep eyes unmoving, focussed entirely on John's as if staring inside of him somehow, attaches a completely different meaning to the words.

Making an effort to stay still, a huge effort after that sentence, because he wants to wriggle with the turmoil coiling in his belly, John deflects his gaze to neutral ground. The coffee table is cluttered – books and papers, a mug, a rolled blueprint, one black pen and one red. There is a small triangle of wood visible, and this is what draws his focus.

He feels, rather than sees, the other man lean in, closing the inches between them painfully slowly. Finally a brush of a nose on his cheek, and a deep inhale through an open mouth. Sherlock is tasting him on the air. Something soft, but dry, grazes his jaw, catching on the day old stubble. A lip? But the touch is hot and does not tickle. A puff of air sweeps over his suddenly heated skin and the grain of the wood seems to shift in front of his eyes, growing wonky for a moment, bending with his consciousness. So he looks away, watching from the corner of his eye as the tip of a pink tongue darts out to capture the trace of John on a full bottom lip. The base drops from his stomach and, amazingly, it is a beautiful feeling.

A second later he loses sight of that mouth as Sherlock leans in again, this time pressing his nose firmly into John's cheekbone. For a few moments he simply breathes him in.

John's hands curl into the corner of the cushion. God, this is... just... the suspension is killing him. His whole body is almost vibrating, anticipating. The brush of a cool lock of hair is teasing his temple, the edge of a finger against his own making his arm tremble.

A noise escapes his throat as, finally, the touch of a hot wet tongue presses gently to his over-sensitised skin. It's not quite a moan, but not really anything else. Just a noise. It's echoed from beside him though, as the tongue stripes firmly up his cheek and Sherlock tastes him. Oh, good Lord.

Sudden long-fingered hands fly up to catch his head, holding him in place and this time Sherlock pushes his lips against John, frantic kisses interspersed with tiny tests of his tongue. John's eyes flutter closed and the mouth moves across, stroking at his eyelids, his brow, the bridge of his nose.

But then he is gone, pulled away and back, leaving a gaping empty space between them. John turns his suddenly released head. Sherlock is pressed back into the arm of the sofa. And he looks petrified.

"Ok?" John asks gently, wondering why he is not the petrified one.

"Are _you_?"

"Yes." More than. "Was that ok? Are you satisfied?"

That was obviously the wrong question to ask, because all he earns in response is a bitter laugh.

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	3. Chapter 3

_Is it getting hot in here or is just me?_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Unfortunately._

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Satisfied?

Sherlock doesn't think he will ever be satisfied again. He can still sense John in his mouth. The heat of his skin, the roughness of his re-growing facial hair (at least thirty hours since he shaved), the dip of the frown between his eyebrows. There is still the salt-tainted sweetness of his skin. A honeyed metallic musk of life, the juxtaposition of conflicting tastes blending on his tongue. It is not a delicate flavour, in fact it's almost overpowering. And now he has sampled it, he knows he will never be able to get enough of it. He can feel the twinge of excitement in his saliva glands, rejoicing in the stimulation of his taste receptors, buzzing with the anticipation of more.

_That_ is why he is plastered back against the worn leather of the corner of the couch. _That_ is why he laughs. And _that_ is why he can only wait a second (one point six seconds, to be slightly more precise) before he lurches forward again, digging his fingers into the soft well-washed cotton of John's t-shirt and straddling the man as he tries to get his next fix.

He wants to _devour_ him.

The panting breaths he is forced to stagger out (thirty-eight per minute) only fill him with more of John, his aroma filtering through and filling Sherlock's lungs with every fevered expansion. He wants more. Needs more. From accidental experience he has discovered that the strongest concentration of John's scent is at the base of his neck, and it would make sense that the distribution of his taste would correlate with this. So, to kill two birds with one stone (for lack of a better expression), that is where he aims for, crushing his mouth into the warm skin there, grazing his nose against the stubble under John's chin on the way, the small discomfort an unexpected pleasure.

John does not, surprisingly, push him off or protest. In fact, he leans back to allow further access, tipping his head and offering himself freely. Sherlock senses the situation tumble over from curious examination to sexual exploration, crossing the line in one seamless bound. He can feel the vibrations of John's moan through his lips, and it is quite possibly the most exciting sensation he can remember. And he can remember a lot of excitement. A tiny part of him that is still making sense files it away for later investigation.

The flavour of John is strong in his nostrils, singeing his sinuses with pleasure. The combined assaults of taste and smell together are almost too intense. The desire is clawing up out of his stomach, rending into his chest, stretching his keen senses even wider open.

As he presses his tongue eagerly to a pulse point (thundering along at approximately ninety-six bpm, surprisingly fast) and feels the blood beneath the fragile layer of skin rushing past his tastebuds, something shifts against the inside curve of his right buttock and halts him for a second. It is no surprise to him that _he_ has an erection, but John's apparent physical excitement is fairly astonishing. Sherlock has been conscious of his own arousal since this whole episode began. Since John questioned his verbal slip-up and made him relive the idea in his head, in even greater detail. There had been a familiar twinge of heat in his lower abdomen as John stood (stiff right knee, has been forgetting his anti-inflammatories) and approached the couch. And he has been so tied up and tangled in his own storm of sensation and emotion that he has completely missed his partner's arousal. Which is a bit of a shock, to be honest.

As is the fact that it exists at all. There is something to be said about the fact that he, himself, finds this experience quite so enticing. As far as he is concerned... Is he actually concerned at all? As soon as John had presented himself like the old proverbial sacrificial lamb to slaughter, Sherlock had stopped being concerned by anything except satisfying his sudden oral and flavour fixation. Before this had begun he had had no idea that this would kickstart some new kind of addiction in him. And now, he can't quite bring himself to regret it.

But for John to also be finding the experience erotic in some way, well, that _is _a surprise.

Sherlock rears back, feeling his lips pulsing with the extra blood they are receiving. There is a delicious blush of pink rising up John's heavenly throat. He watches, mesmerised as it spreads, staining his jaw. John is watching him too, through half closed hooded lids, the black of his dilated pupils dominating and gifting him with a new darkness that is predatory and devastatingly alluring. There is pure want radiating from that gaze, and it almost burns him. He realises in that moment, that this is not a newly discovered want; this is something that has been there for a while, hidden but growing, denied but unknowingly cultivated.

"How long?" Sherlock asks, urgently. He needs to know. He needs to know how long he has missed this for. How long he has tortured himself unnecessarily. How much time has been wasted.

John does not answer with words. He tips forward his head and presses firm lips against Sherlock's, emitting a small vocal sigh with the contact. And Sherlock knows what he is telling him. _From the very beginning._

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	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four. Ya ya ya, still not mine, yadda yadda, I just borrow. _

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The moment their lips touch, John is lost. If he is honest he has been that way since his first step into the lab at St. Bart's all those months ago. His life had tumbled back into chaos and he had welcomed the descent, but never more than now, with a lapful of lean writhing detective.

Eager is not the word to describe Sherlock. Desperate doesn't even cover it. He is_ frantic_, folding himself into John, tightening his knees around his thighs and hanging onto his for dear life as he practically sucks the soul out of him. He delves his hands into John's cropped hair, using long fingers around his skull to deepen the angle of their kiss. He is still tasting, John realises, flicking his tongue playfully into the heat of John's mouth before returning it to his own to absorb and analyse his findings.

John doesn't have the perfected memory of his flatmate (can he still call him that, or does this change their domestic situation beyond repair?), but he can quite happily say he has never kissed like this. Never even imagined kissing like this. And John is a kissing kind of guy.

Sherlock pulls back, the hot puffs of his breath on John's face a tantalising tease. "Can I have more? Is there anywhere I'm not allowed?"

Oh God. Does that mean what he thinks it does? It's never guaranteed with Sherlock that his words mean what they appear to. "Erm... Do you mean...?" How can this be phrased to not leave him looking like an idiot if he's wrong?

A huff of irritation. Sherlock is back to his usual self for a reassuring second, and speaking insultingly slowly, "Can. I. Take. Your. Clothes. Off. And. Taste. You. All. Over?"

The sting of his words is dulled by the way he picks up John's hand and inserts his tongue into the space between two fingers, sliding, slick and slippery, before retracting it back between his lips and rubbing it against the roof of his mouth thoughtfully. A second later he is back for more, licking up the sensitive inside of John's middle digit before laying the tip on the flat of his tongue and sucking it back into his mouth. He hums appreciatively to himself, curling the sides of his tongue around it as he slowly releases it back into the air. John wonders briefly if he is dying.

Sherlock's eyes flick back up, all heat and ice, holding John's gaze. "_Please_..."

John doesn't actually trust himself to speak. Arousal has formed a lump in his throat and he can predict it will make his voice crack. He has no intention of sounding like an overstimulated fourteen year-old, so he nods. Firmly.

It is odd, he reflects less than a minute later, to be pinned between a fully clothed friend and the living room rug, which is a surprisingly rough surface on his now bare back. Perhaps odd isn't the word. Utterly absurd. Ridiculously bizarre. Nothing seems to quite cover it. Sherlock has pushed his jumper and t-shirt up and wrestled them off and they are now flung redundantly in a corner somewhere. Before they have even cooled themselves of John's bodyheat, Sherlock is astride his legs, popping open the button of his jeans and peeling back the zipper. The man has little patience at the best of times, and right now he is far from his best. Well, at some things. At removing jeans in record time he is apparently a master. John thinks he should probably tell him to slow down, but isn't sure he really wants to, and he is far too busy kicking his feet free of the constricting denim.

Sherlock's tongue is deliciously hot and wet as it lathes over his chest. He samples him leisurely before sitting up and staring into space for a few seconds. Then another spot, closer to his armpit, a small moan and another pondering. John forgets to feel self-conscious; this is somehow above all that. Podgy bits and lumpy bits and twisted scars of lives almost forgotten mean nothing right now. The third time Sherlock shifts backwards and dips his mouth to the back of a knee (apparently now a _major_ erogenous zone) and then back up to his chest. John starts to lose track beyond that. His world becomes a delicious twist of hot moisture, trembling muscles and air-cooling damp skin.

He is being catalogued, he realises. Sherlock really meant it when he said he wanted to taste him. He is mapping and detailing the different nuances of flavour and texture over the complete span of John's body. He should find it disturbing, he supposes, rather than arousing, but he seems to be struggling with that idea.

"How do I taste?" He whispers.

Sherlock takes a minute to think, nuzzling his nose into the fuzzy smattering of hair around John's navel. In fact, John thinks he has been distracted and won't actually get round to answering at all when he finally makes eye contact.

"_Exquisite_."

There is no hiding the twitch from inside his underwear at that. Especially not with it pressed against Sherlock's chest as it is. It earns a small curve of a smile in response and John feels a blush burning his cheeks. How ridiculous.

He is sure it isn't possible to orgasm from the sensation of having his stomach licked, but with every flick of that deliciously warm moist muscle against his abdomen he loses a little of that certainty. The brush of shirt-clad torso against his groin adds to the overwhelming build up of tension and John finds himself balancing precariously on the edge of desperation, fighting to keep himself still. Whatever is about to happen between them, it won't last long on his part.

Hands raise, of their own accord, instinctively searching for something, anything to anchor him down. His fingers weave into silken curls, the tips digging into the warmth of a flesh-covered skull. They follow as the skull pulls away slightly, moving down, directing the attached mouth to and along the waistband of his cotton boxer-briefs. A tickle of a nose in the hollow of his hip has John shying away, arching towards, silently begging.

A different set of fingers ease up a loose leg of soft shorts, revealing the last inches of heated sensitive thigh, and the tongue joins in, dipping into the crease between leg and groin, lips sucking at the salted musk of sweat and sex.

"Sshh," John's mouth shapes the name, but his voice gives up before it even begins. The click he makes at the end of the failed attempt rings out in the quiet room, diverting attention for a second from the rustle of cloth and the tugging at his waist.

But then Sherlock's mouth is _there_, licking slowly up and sinking down over John's newly exposed erection, rock hard and _burning_, and John's voice is back and he's not even sure what he cries out even remotely resembles a word at all, but who gives a damn.

The precipice he was teetering on is now wobbling and vibrating with desperation and his centre of gravity is wavering. Sherlock alternates between flicking swipes of tongue and bobbing enveloping kisses, grazing lip-covered teeth down the length of him, catching them deliberately on fleshy ridges on the way back up. The strokes of that amazing tongue and gentle suction of its heated home are pulling and pushing John in every direction and when he realises Sherlock is actually rubbing himself instinctively against John's naked leg it is just too much. He has every intention of pulling Sherlock's head away from him and making a mess only of himself as he comes, but the comprehension required for such an action feels far beyond him. And, judging from the stubborn tilt of the head beneath his hands as he attempts feebly to tug, it is an unwelcome action anyway.

He feels the head of his cock press against Sherlock's palette, slipping to hit the back of his throat and he comes, goes, explodes, implodes, erupts all at the same time. And somewhere, in the outer edges of his undulating haze of pleasure he notices the rhythmic thrusting against the side of his knee is now ruptured and stuttered, and the fingertips at his hips are digging and bruising, and the hot exhalations around the base of his cock are full of sound and growling and groaning.

Then the only sounds to penetrate John's ears are his own broken breaths and pounding pulse. Through his drifting peace, in which he is sinking pleasingly into the carpet and his heavy muscles are flickering gently in aftershocks, John catches onto the fact that Sherlock is collapsed over him, his hips twitching intermittently, nudging his nose into John's pubic hair.

"S'all good," he mumbles, unsure which of them he is addressing. But he's sure it is. Very good.

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	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five. Well done you for making it this far. Glad you're still here. _

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This could get to be a problem.

Sherlock is semi-aware of his position and how he managed to get there, but has yet to figure a way out of it. Logistically, it is simple. Shift weight, place palms on floor, lift and support with arms, bend knees, move backwards. Physically it gets a bit tougher; he is still trembling slightly, his muscles weakened, his sense of balance is likely to be off. And emotionally; well, _he ain't goin' nowhere_.

He hears John's slurred reassurance and wants to laugh. Good, yes it was very good. Apart from (or perhaps especially) the bit where he came, in his pants, at the mere taste of the ejaculate of the man he is now lying prone upon on the living room floor. Oh, good lord.

The taste is still humming in his mouth, if he twists his tongue it gives him a whole new burst of pleasure. John shifts below him, searching for comfort in the hard floorboards. It is time to move.

He doesn't bother to stop himself, the odds of success are swiftly calculated and decidedly against him, from leaning in as he moves away and taking one last swiping taste. The bitter tang of flavour explodes on his tongue and shudders through him. The hypersensitivity of his senses has never been so appreciated. Apart from his awareness of the irritating cooling stickiness in his underwear that clings and chafes in annoying places as he unfolds himself.

From a standing, slightly swaying, position he looks down on John, who is raised up on his elbows to look up at him. And damn, if he doesn't just look like the most tempting thing in existence, sheened with sweat, with the warm flush of blood under his skin... There is just so much more of him to explore.

"Please stop looking at me like that."

Well, he'd like to say that is unexpected, only it isn't. He had known John would be uncomfortable with this. The very chemistry of their relationship has depended on this never happening. And now, well, where exactly are they going to go from here? Sherlock has never felt quite so uneasy, unknowing, uncertain. In a split second he can see numerous negative outcomes of this experience. John hating him and leaving. John staying, and still hating him. He forces himself to stop as the possibilities become worse. The shifting and twisting of this partnership, straying into delicious yet dangerous waters could be the very end of both of them.

"Like what?" He forces the words out, surprised at the low cracking of his voice. He needs an answer that distracts his mind from the direction it is heading. And, to be honest, he has lost track of his face and has no idea what it is saying.

"Like you have only just had the starter, but you're not sure if the main is a good idea."

Apparently his face is an even better communication tool than he gave it credit for. Usually it is utilised alongside words and pre-planned body language for greater effect, but right now it seems to be doing a fine job on its own.

John is pushing himself up to stand, stepping closer, crossing the boundaries of Sherlock's personal space. He takes a second to adjust his wayward underwear, using the opportunity to find the words he needs. He is often a surprise to Sherlock, a refreshing perspective on things, and he usually enjoys the unexpected from him. But now he wishes he knew what was going on in that oddly wise head, because he would like a clue on how he's going to have to react. It takes an effort not to move, though he is unsure whether the movement would be towards or away.

"Sherlock..."

A soft voice. Gentle. Reassuring? Or a gentle let-down? Nice while it lasted, but I'm slightly regretting it now. Sorry this was a total mistake, I had no idea where it was headed. Oh my God, how many times do I have to tell you I'm not gay? Did you just cream yourself like a pubescent teenager while you gave me a blowjob?

There is a reason he never puts himself in situations like this. He feels his hackles begin to rise, a quick fire retort forming, just waiting for the inevitable insult to reach his ears before it snaps out of his vocal chords and echoes through his mouth. He doesn't want to cut John, he never _wants_to, but he's not taking this lying down. He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, determined despite his certainty of what is coming, not to be the first one to snap.

"Stop thinking horrible things."

From the corner of his eye, flicked quickly in John's direction, he can see the little knowing smile on those thin firm lips. Lips that he has tasted, lips that he wants again. Now. Forever.

"I think we both need a shower. And then probably to go to bed."

"No cup of restorative tea?" Sherlock quips, trying so hard not to think of John in bed, with all that divine flesh dampened from the shower, flavour coiling into the air with warm moisture, accompanied by crumpled sheets scented with sleep. And... he is getting hard again, twitching and filling into the damp glutinous mess in his too-tight boxers. Is that even possible? Previous studies have proved his refractory period ranges– Ah, but then again, previous studies never involved John Watson.

He wants to be there with him. There must be a way. Would it be wrong to steal into his room after he falls asleep? To slip beneath the duvet and press himself against John, tangle their legs together and nuzzle his nose into the crease between neck and shoulder? A 'bit not good' as John would so inanely say? Hmm, perhaps it would cross one of_those_ lines somewhat.

"I can make tea if you like," John shrugs.

Tea would be nice. The fresh soothing wash of the hot liquid would ease his throat, clean his mouth, would wash away– "No!"

John's hand is warm on Sherlock's arm. He senses the need for comfort. "You are making no sense, which is nothing unusual, but still... Come and have a shower with me."

He couldn't possibly mean... Sherlock can't fight the visions of clear rivulets racing down over a smooth back, rough scars, finding paths through the hair on John's arms. He would follow them with his tongue. He would suck pink marks into the sensitised heated flesh of John's buttocks, his teeth... Oh god, what he would do with his teeth!

"Stop thinking and start doing."

John is tugging his arm now, pulling him towards the bathroom. And Sherlock is following, shedding his clothes as he goes. He can see the shift of muscles in John's back as he walks, the bumps of his spine under their thin layer of skin as he reaches to switch on the shower.

"You _do_ want this?" John turns to check, apparently completely ignorant of the tangle Sherlock is getting into trying to remove his trousers and boxers and socks and shoes in one go at great speed.

"Don't be moronic," he gets one ankle free and wobbles precariously as he goes for the other, "I can't think of anything I want more than you naked, in that shower, letting me taste you all over as you're sliding your wet skin against me, curling your tongue in my mouth, squeezing your fingers into–"

"Jesus!" John bashes his knee as he clambers ungracefully into the bathtub. "Get the fuck in here now, or I'm going to get the soap out."

He knows that John knows. Even he couldn't be that dense. It could only be a tease. But the yelled protest is out of his mouth before he can stop it. "No! You'll ruin the flavour!"

John's grin around the shower curtain is incandescently indecent. This could become a problem...

* * *

_The End. For now. There may be a sequel one day. It's very tempting. I'm always happy to hear your ideas..._


End file.
